


Selective Permeability

by LaDolceMia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies to John's chair, Creepy yet romantic sexytimes, Haptic Johnlock, Having to recode this entire thing one html tag at a bloody time was not fun for my retinas, John has ways of getting through them, Latex gloves and coats don't protect people - friends protect people, M/M, Mrs Hudson is conveniently never at home in my fics, Sherlock has barriers, Well latex gloves and coats also do but let me work the dubious metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:05:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDolceMia/pseuds/LaDolceMia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>Barriers protect us; every membrane is a gate, a guard. But they have to let some things in, else we perish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selective Permeability

**Author's Note:**

> This is a **sequel** to another writer's piece, and it shan't make a whit of sense - truly, it will not - if you don't read [the short work that inspired it](http://libraryofsol.livejournal.com/162767.html#cutid1). I couldn't let go the tingly "what happens next?" itch and just enjoy the quiet dénouement of the superbly crafted original. 
> 
> Tremendous thanks to swissmarg and dioscureantwins for invaluable assistance and general loveliness.
> 
> ~
> 
>   
> Kudos–button clickers, you are appreciated. It makes me happy to know when I've pleased a reader. Comments or private messages with feedback of any sort are always welcome. 

  


––

Gone to shout at Mycroft. SH

 

Deservedly or not, John wonders, as he pads into the kitchen for the rarity that is a morning alone in the flat, slipping mobile into robe pocket with a soft click. Surveying the snowdrift of files Sherlock's left sprawled across the table, he nudges at a clot of photographs, clearing enough land for his saucer. 

Turning for the kettle, he stops short, the air gripping him as surely as a seizing hand: A faint, stray whiff of Sherlock's shampoo drifting by. It puts him instantly back there, in the way that scents do, olfactory axons woven deeply as they are into the grey matter. 

It puts him, in fact, quite entirely _too_ tangibly back there, lying exposed on the carpet with Sherlock braced over him so closely that John can smell his hair as he– 

The grimace is determined, the curl of his fingers sharp as he tightens them against the counter edge, trying to forestall his body's response to the kindled memory.

It's been so long that he's– well, "forgotten" can hardly be the word for it, given how often he's traced the contours of that eventful evening in his mind. And, if he's quite honest with himself, more than once over the aching lines of his flesh. "Shelved", perhaps. Tucked it up there with all the other unusual curios that comprise the console that is Life With Sherlock Holmes. 

He felt certain that it'd ended... _well_. Which is a bit odd, considering, but then that's them all over: However unconventional anything in their dynamic is, however daft, it simply works. John's alright with body parts next to the broccoli, and ridiculous tantrums, and the sleep-jabbing poke of G sharps at half three in the morning. 

And, apparently, with crime scene fetishes. 

As with all the less naked ( _and ohgodstrangelywonderful_ ) idiosyncrasies, John was unfazed, his reaction essentially the same as it always is to any other of their... adventures. Per usual, he doesn't tell Sherlock to piss off, or go get his lunatic head examined. Genuine acceptance and the unspoken but deep ( _he's sure, almost positive_ ) appreciation thereof is the steady little metronome at the centre of them, and that hushed and heady foray into new terrain was no exception. 

Since then, no overt allusions to lines crossed and paradigms gone sloshily sideways, but no sense of any elephants in the room either, lurking amongst any errant eyeballs that might've rolled away behind furniture. Their conversations are still easy, the same comfortable rapport on cases, the same uniquely harmonious repartee at home – _Eat a little pasta. You're so_ tiresome, _John. And you're a colossal tit, here, have some veg with it._ – and their silences still companionable. Why then haven't they–

His teacup has very little advice to offer as he sighs heavily into it.

It might not _mean_ anything at all that it hasn't exactly come up in conversation or ...in any other way... over the subsequent month; there's every chance it was simply a passing curiosity – like any of Sherlock's, deleted and forgotten once satisfied. Case closed, as it were.

And whether it's sex generally or merely John specifically that Sherlock's lost interest in hardly matters to him, as either way the result is the same. 

 

He's not, of course, disheartened about that result. He's. Not.

  


~

  


It's water, he's certain.

He's in darkness; soft, black, total. Twice blind, the dreamer dreaming of closed eyes. But we can see with our other senses, can't we? There's the hallmark absence of scent, and the distinctive viscosity tells him it could only be water. Chilly caress at the edge of his hair. 

The carpet fades away, leaving only the pooled liquid, blot of shimmer on a field of black, and he turns toward it, touches it in that characteristic way that we move in the deep nest of sleep– hazy ballet of honey-swimming limbs. 

Under his fingers, it's cool and wet, and yields immediately to his touch. Becomes something different for a moment, its surface disrupted, transformed. 

When he lifts his hand away, its surface resumes its original placid state. But some clings to his skin, becomes part of him. And he knows that he can touch it again and again and each time it will open for him.

~

  


Framed by the tartan blanket, the tawny head shifts, eyes flicking gently under thin skin in R.E.M. sleep's erratic dance. It's nothing intentional, that he so closely resembles the victim in the Haverton case. He certainly couldn't have noticed any particular one in the swirl of grim portraits as he'd attempted to clear a swath on the kitchen table for toast and teacup this morning. 

He hadn't even looked at the photographs, not _really_. At this point in their cohabitation, it's all visual white noise, one big blur of corpses and mayhem, and as he'd shuffled them into a crooked stack like the world's most bizarre deck of cards, he'd hardly glanced. 

So there's no way that the image could have seeped into his mind. There's almost. No possibility that that's why he's currently in the position he's in: Slumped in the plush burgundy armchair, head lolled to the edge of the seatback, arms flung like beach–tossed flotsam over the sides. 

Looking very nearly the spitting image of William Haverton; Male Caucasian, thirty–nine, 78.1 kg, found dead in his sitting chair. Wearing– a dark green jumper and khaki trousers. 

His own sartorial choice this morning is merely a coincidence. He certainly didn't search around in his cedar trunk for this specific jumper when he couldn't find it in the closet, didn't intentionally pair it with sand hued trousers in order to resemble a murder victim. Certainly not to. Entice Sherlock.

At least the kip's genuinely nothing calculated; some small consolation, proof that he's not a complete degenerate. He's not, after all, intentionally _posing_ as a corpse. He really did just flup into the familiar seat for a brief rest after an especially long shift at the clinic, and he really didn't mean to doze off there. 

 

But accidents, as anyone can tell you, _will_ have their consequences.

  


~

  
Unmistakable sensation: The dry kiss of latex on skin. Resting lightly on his neck just to the left of the slowly throbbing runnel of his carotid.

And it should've startled, should have instantly knocked diaphragm into the characteristic sharpsucked sip of air of the abruptly awakened, eyes flipping open reflexively, the slight jerk of spine that signals the neuronal flare of the fight or flight response. 

It should have because that's several hundred thousand years of mammalian evolution there, primal brain wired for danger, woven into the very fabric of who we are. 

It doesn't. 

Which maybe means that Sherlock Holmes has saturated him so deeply that he's actually displaced biology. Jostled imperiously for first position in John's very nervous system. And won.

Fully awake, perfectly still, he waits until the pressing pads of the gloved fingers lift before he swallows, minutely as he can, fine neck hairs prickling up in the trail of the touch. 

In his buzzing head, hears with bristling clarity the echo of the injunction last time: 

_There, that's it, perfect, shut your eyes and don't move – and don't speak._

The words, and _christ_ , the _tone_ of Sherlock's voice as he'd said it, that tiny thread of breathless excitement wound through it– even silently remembered, it shoots a white knife of desire into his veins.

Since this is not that first time, laden with the thrill of new transgression, it should, perhaps, be a little less exciting, a little less pleasurably frightening and stomach-tilting. 

It isn't. 

He knows, of course, that he could stop this at any point, but even so, it's– arousing. That Sherlock _didn't ask permission_ this time.

And no comforting pretense _en reprise_ that he's just doing this to accommodate the unusual, and perhaps not a little dark, needs of an unusual, and perhaps not a little dark, man. He's not merely participating, he's offering. He's. Initiating. 

Perhaps that fact's what accounts for the more hectic breathing filling the sunset-suffused parlor: Sherlock sounds decidedly less controlled than last time. John's managed to _surprise_ him. He can well imagine the hot bolt of pleasure in Sherlock's eyes the cognitive thrill unleashes, he's seen that on cases. What a more carnal thrill does to them he can only guess, didn't get to see it last time. Won't get to this time.

The thrumming interregnum between the fingers leaving his throat and whatever’s coming next is too long, deliciously long and he listens, straining to hear, to shape in his mind's eye the picture of what's there on the other side of the blinkered darkness.

A rustle that tells him very little, but then– a small, wet sound. Flick of tongue over lip? He imagines Sherlock's mouth red and already tingeing with puffiness. Clearer sounds of movement. Circling the chair slowly, flared hem of coat ringing like a silent bell. Pauses suddenly, behind him, is still. Is–

Sniffing. At his neck. A softsipping inhale nearly– _dear god almost_ – against the skin behind his ear. It sends a line of goosebumps spilling down his arm. Nowhere for the trilling shudder of it to go, can't speak, can't move, can only tamp it hard down, the effort so distracting that he doesn't catch the sound of shoes, moving.

Shocking, then, when the inhale is tugging softly at his own breath; Sherlock sniffing his mouth. 

Stealing his air, why is– Oh. A suspected poisoning. Searching for the scent of almonds, arsenic's bittersweet calling card.

He's so close that the tip of his nose grazes John's upper lip. 

"Please" isn't a word so much as it is a desperate greed made of flesh and bone and painfully thudding heart: _Mouth. Wet. Inside. Open. Sherlock. Godplease._

The sudden, giddy panic takes him by complete surprise. It's more difficult this time, for some reason, to keep still, to keep quiet, to keep the glinting ache of it all caged, and his body roils silently with the stress. 

Fine palate of a chemist, Sherlock can probably smell it, the roar of adrenaline and cortisol pouring into his bloodstream. He seems to, in fact, or at least he hesitates a moment, lingers over John’s mouth, begins to– open his own, oh yes _yes_ –

No. Of course not. Kissing is. Intimate. And whatever this is– Wonders idly if Sherlock's ever _kissed_ anyone; that seems more intriguing a question, somehow, than whether he's ever had sex. 

Drift of air as he pulls away, rug sounds and then the weight of his left hand, lifted. Splayed palm-up in Sherlock's, cool rasp of latex against his knuckles. Quieter breathing from above; thinking about the actual case now, probably.

He isn't, but John will never know that. If he could see his face, perhaps– but he can't. So he lets his hand be held quietly, examined slowly, and concentrates on not moving under the insistent nag of the small cramp growing in his neck where he's bent at really rather a bad angle that's starting to– _oh_.

The brush is. Not tickling, exactly. One of the small, feathery latent fingerprint ones, his best guess. Doesn't feel as if there's any powder on it as it glides across his palm, sweeps infinitely slowly down each finger, his reaction nothing he'd have expected: Warmth washing through his limbs, and brown flesh of nipples pebbling abruptly.

He'd– he would _swear_ that Sherlock's not looking at his hand, though. But he must have it wrong– and really, how accurate can one expect to be without being able to see? Still, it feels like he's staring at his _face_.

Dead men don't blush. But then, John's not a dead man.

Some sort of small– satisfied?– sound out there in the unseen, and Sherlock's gently returning the now tingling hand to its position flung over the chair side. Pauses, leans– doing what? Deciding, maybe – thinks he detects a ghost of hovering hand: Over forearm, up, pausing above clavicle before landing, finally, squarely on his sternum.

Begins to move slowly over his jumper, flat press of his palm over the curving hull of his ribcage feels– impossibly wonderful. Like he's _listening_ with his hand. Holds it there for a long moment before making small, precise palpations with each finger, tracing the shapes of bone through fabric. 

The thoroughgoing touch makes him crave in a way that feels suddenly and surprisingly like sadness. Wants Sherlock's hand under the wool, on skin like last time, wants his hand without the glove, and– above all, wants to _touch Sherlock_ , hadn't really, hasn't yet– wants that, wants a lot of other things, too, things he's only now realising.

And just how long has it taken him to realise that Sherlock's been silent the whole while, that he isn't rattling off anything about Haverton or rigor or phenol traces? 

No time to dwell because the slender hand is moving, meticulously cataloging the hard ridges and small softnesses of abdomen, staggered tilt of breath when thumb bumps belt buckle. He won't. He won't move, he won't tremble. Not even when the fingers slide and there's a click and the underside of the working wrist accidentally presses down–

He. Won't. Move or speak. _Breathe, John_. Feels the co2 building up in his blood, the silent, persistent chemical strangulation of it. Control. He has some. Somewhere in the wrack and ruin of his mind. In, out; measured, something like even. Is grateful that he gets a few consistent draughts before Sherlock hooks his fingertips in and pulls.

Bit of a challenge to keep from sliding as trousers and pants are tugged, and he wonders if he should yield or cheat a bit instead – stiffen his spine just enough to keep his body from being pulled towards the floor along with his clothes. Then he remembers; how much Sherlock seemed to enjoy the way he responded last time, the glittery little moan as he'd let his body roll slack under his ministrations, so he relaxes fully, slumps into absolutely dead weight that does, indeed, slide almost entirely out of the chair as Sherlock yanks at corduroy and cotton. 

It's a small distance, this journey from chair to mostly floor. But enough time, it seems, to fill his cock all at once with blood, a rushing throb that sets his tongue between his teeth. Not helped _at all_ by the loud suck of air above him. He imagines the same filling throb under gabardine. 

He can feel Sherlock staring at him, and just like last time, it's intoxicating, owning his attention so fully, so _intensely_. Doesn't know exactly what to call what it does to his insides, this tilting, buzzing sway, knows only that it's very, very difficult at this moment not to groan and thrust into air.

Cool touch of glove on his calf, then a slide that prickles the gold hairs. Long fingers encircling his ankle, thumb fitting perfectly in the dip below the knob of bone there. _Arranging_ him, and clearly not to match the photograph, now. To– what? Replicate some imagined scenario in his head? Or merely to get a better view of John's exposed prick? That thought's quick to do its work and he wonders, only a little hysterically, if Sherlock is close enough to see the wetness suddenly shining glans. 

It's a brief wonder because wondering is thinking and he can't then, for a hitched moment, as he feels the small bead of it drop over the curve and slide down. Can't suppress the shudder that moves his thighs, roleplay be damned.

Hearing heightened by the blindness, he listens with acuity as the hand leaves his foot, moves away. Unreadable silence that tugs his nerves for a small eternity before the soft scrape of latex against fabric and strangled throat noise paint him an all too clear auditory picture of Sherlock: Standing over a splayed half-naked body that's lying in a heap like the world's most obscene marionette, palming at himself through his trousers.

So. It will be just like last time; Sherlock will masturbate, and then– And that's fine, really, that's– 

A suffering sound above him and then soft crush of carpet fibres under shoes as he moves quickly, bending to slip his hands under John's arms– pauses, apparently thinks better of it, and gets his arms 'round his waist instead and hauls. 

This proves to be kinder to the bad shoulder but crueler to the hard flesh between John's legs, which is pressed roughly into the wool-coated torso, getting him painfulwonderful friction that makes him want to _rub_ more than he's ever wanted anything in his life.

Hears him step back; appraise. Smooth flutters as he reaches to make small adjustments: wrist, neck, precise placement of his head on the chairback. The tip of the gloved index finger intolerably arousing against his lip as it parts his mouth, just a fraction. 

He thinks Sherlock's finished, this feels like the correct position he's returned him to. It's what he's thinking when the latex-skinned hands land softly on his knees. His close-together knees.

And then they push.

Not with anything he'd have called "force" if his brain hadn't suddenly lilted sideways, capsized, making words fuzzy white things. No, he'd probably have described it as "determined." Neither fast nor slow, and clinical, except it's far too arousing for that chilly word. 

Over the left arm of the chair, his hand's fallen asleep where it hangs numbly from his outflung wrist like a stone. But the rest of him's never been so awake. So– almost painfully– _alive_. That playing a dead man should make him feel more alive than he ever has is probably paradoxical, but that word got left on the kerb the day he climbed seventeen stairs to a new life.

As Sherlock's hands begin a slow slide of inner thighs, tawny hairs catching just a little on the dry taut stretch of rubber, he doubts, really doubts for the first time, that he can keep up the pretext. A new definition of _need_ is being written on his skin as the dexterous fingers slide, advance, retreat, linger over his flesh. It’s not forensic and it’s not sexual, except that it is, both of those, but something else, too. Unique, this touch. Uniquely Sherlock. Memorising him, is what it feels like. Some kind of map being carved on flickering neurons, John’s body becoming part of Sherlock’s brain. Unbearable, this cartography.

Each slow drag on his skin feels like it's pulling his heartbeat to the surface, every intent press making him feel things, shifting, nebulous things that dissolve his bones. Sinking into the pleasure of it, he feels the ache spread outward from the base of pained cock, saturating his legs, creeping up his chest. It's warm and it's painful and it's wanting and it's clearly distracting because he's caught off guard, a flinch he hopes Sherlock doesn't see, when the hand on his right leg slips under and– lifts.

Lifts the dead weight of thick thigh. Lifts and moves and–

Silent swallow as the small jolt of shame flares in his belly. It’s gone from exposed to– humiliating? Is that what this feeling is, as his mind’s eye winces at the envisioned tableau: Legs spread wide and the right now hoisted up high over the arm of the chair. Small current of room air doing completely unnecessary reminding of just how _exposed_ he is.

It’s transient– nothing more than a flicker, really, but it’s there; an instinctual urge to resist. Lash out, defend. 

It doesn’t make much sense ( _just what of any of this does, John?_ ), but it passes, leaving in its wake a fevered twist of rawness and plangent desire that he couldn't put into words even if he were _allowed_ to speak. 

Sherlock’s still standing, that much he can discern by the height of breath sounds; turning now and– walking away? But not far, apparently, because there it is again, nearer, and then. Lowering. Sherlock on his knees, soft marriage of wool coat and wool rug. Glad he's obligated to keep his eyes closed; embarrassing enough, this gazing, at a distance, but to have to see Sherlock eye level there would be–

Little shock that makes him want to pull away mortified when a moist raft of breath hits his skin: Sherlock's leaning in, he's looking closely– _closely_. The realisation tightens his bollocks sharply, and he knows Sherlock must see it happen. Can't allow himself to think about the fact that Sherlock must also see the spasm of silky pink knot that accompanies it.

Jagged huffs of breath as he moves his finger curiously. Along the crease of buttock and groin, briefly into the fine curls and then. Down. Slowly around bollocks to the warm skin below, stroking downwards, towards– prick twitches on its own, and that can’t be helped, but he suspects that Sherlock doesn’t particularly mind the break in the illusion because he _gurgles_ , there’s no other word for it, really, and when he feels the exploring hand lift away, John knows exactly where it’s going.

He is, of course, completely wrong.

Just an ordinary brain – straightforward, barely used; how could he be faulted? It was logical to assume that the next sound he’d hear would be Sherlock unzipping and reaching in for himself. So it's quite understandable really, the unhinged laugh that knocks at his teeth when the tip of gloved index finger lands with no warning. 

The tight ring of muscle shocks with a quiver that makes a sound come out of Sherlock's mouth that in its turn makes John want to _see_ his face, see what Sherlock's face making that noise looks like, but he can't open his eyes because he's dead, or he's supposed to be, but in any case he's going to be, and soon, because this is– 

Unspeakably good.

He strokes, once. Seems dissatisfied, shifts, there are noises– _Oh_. He won't let his body sag with grief at the disappearance of the caressing finger. He won't. He's dead, after all. He's not naked and craving and realising with terror and wonder at the great cosmic joke that is the timing that he's maybe in– whatever being in love with Sherlock Holmes is. He's not that. And sod all if that isn't the single most fucked up part of a scenario that involves his consenting– _offering_ – to pretend to be a naked corpse for his flatmate to molest. 

It's a curious revelation to be having at the precise moment the cold, gelatinous kiss of lubricant meets one's arsehole.

Strokes, tests the improvement to the process. Seems satisfied. Seems very satisfied, and the wool _shhhs_ as he settles in, begins.

To unwind one John Watson from his sanity. 

Which is to say, to pet in soft, tiny, tentative strokes the dusky knot of flesh. Other gloved hand sliding under green hem of jumper, climbing, and he’s never been quite so happy to be the– ...less tall– half of this dyad, because Sherlock’s long arm can easily traverse his comparatively shorter torso all the way to his _yes_.

Apparently even geniuses have their limits on multi–tasking; the wet finger stops moving as the dry ones curiously probe puckering nipples, feeling out the perimeter of each with a slowness that drives him spare, teeth aching in clenched jaw, and for a moment he _hates_ this, hates Sherlock and he wants– he _needs_ – to let it all out _fuck_ but if he does, then this will stop and he doesn’t want it to stop so he fights back the sounds hammering hard at his throat, gets the soft pink flesh of the inside of his cheek between molars, bites, minutely.

Wills himself not to moan as Sherlock rubs– harder now, _jesus_ , and doesn’t that just make him want Sherlock’s _teeth_ around the hard bits of flesh?– but it has to go somewhere, it's reached critical mass, the silent storm of swallowed words, and the only place for it to go is into his breath so it does, audible scrape of it hitching in and out as he dares let his ribcage do as it pleases. 

Corpses don't _pant_ , and there's no possibility Sherlock can't hear this. But he's not stopping, and it doesn't seem as though he's bothered by it. If anything, it seems to– excite him, actually, if his own suddenly rougher respiration is any indication. 

Shift of arm against his thigh makes him think the wet touching’s about to resume, and he braces himself for the slickly petting finger. Doesn't know, not yet, that he's made a tactical error. The shifting hand moves farther away from the heat between his legs, not closer, and the other disappears entirely, lifting off his chest. He can't sense where it is inside the warm cave of jumper front.

And then he knows where it is because it's suddenly there. And it isn't forensic and it isn't sexual and it's every inch as shock-inducing as what it's resting over was. A tremor of– tenderness in it that's tangible and heart wrenching and completely unbearable as Sherlock touches his fingers reverently against the gnarled place where war cut a road through sinew and bone. 

It breaks him open, splits him as surely as a vase shattered, so it's not his fault that the word spills out, it's Sherlock's fault so it's fitting, really, that that's the word, _Sherlock_ , out of his mouth before he can catch it, loud in the electrified air and thick with more emotion than two syllables should be able to contain.

The hand on him frozen, no one breathing. 

All sorts of falling-down panic in the sudden stillness, wants to say something, has to say something, doesn't know what, tongue thick as clotted cream, can only think the word _No_ and _thinks_ is not what the syllable's doing, it's _shouting_ in his head and his mind reels for the right words, the right thing, has to do something, fix this, somehow, silently willing him to stay– _I’ll do it better, just please don’t leave, no_ –

But of course he is. Pulling briskly away, John’s leg slipping and falling, eyes squeezed shut, can’t bring himself to move, praying that if he just remains perfectly still, Sherlock will stay and– 

The distinctive snap; he doesn't even need the usual .00002 seconds for cortex and auditory nerve to coordinate in order to identify it. It's rote in there, a sound he's heard thousands of times.

Swift crackle of latex being yanked off the same as pulling his guts out and the _shhh_ on the rug tells him that Sherlock's knee is moving, he's standing, and. Sherlock will leave the room silently, small and damning click of the door and then John can. Stand. Gather the wreck of himself, carry it upstairs to his bed and lie in the sticky, sad regret––

But it’s not leaving, this. Because this is. Touching. Warm. So warm. Can feel, here and there, faint patches of the talc, clinging to his fingers. 

New word, better word. _Yes_. Yesyes. Probably some other ones floating in there, too, but he's hardly listening to his brain because Sherlock's hand is light and smooth against his thigh, Sherlock's _bare hand_ , and he's certain this can't possibly get any better.

Or at least, he is for the handful of seconds before the single syllable glides– and that is what it does, really– onto the sea of the quiet air, Sherlock's voice a dark, glossy bird sailing the silence.

" _John_."

That must mean. It could only mean. He can– Certain it means he can stop pretending, but he doesn't want to botch this. If he'd dared to open his eyes, he'd be seeing Sherlock reading his face; instead he only _hears_ it, a palpable intensity.

"Open your eyes, John."

There's a moment, very small, between the impact of a projectile and the flying apart; he knows this, has seen it, heard it. The words land, and in that interregnum, air rushes into and out of his lungs and then just like that he's alive, modern Lazarus, The Case of the Dead Man Resurrected in an Armchair. ( _But isn't that what it's been from the very start? Didn’t he bring you back to life, give you back what the war took, give you purpose and shake the numb caul of deadness from your limbs?_ )

And then the flying apart; a shudder of relief that runs the length of him, knocking away the heavy quiescence of limbs. Dry lips part to a muddled tumult of moan and syllables, a hard, loud swallow, a short gasp as he raises creaky eyelids. Even the scant light of dusk is a minor shock, and he blinks. 

"There, that's it, perfect."

Sherlock’s closer to him than he realised, leaning down, his face just a few inches from his own, but subtly holding his body back, trace of stiffness to his stance. Expression as smooth as still water, but there’s something– something beneath the surface of it that John, for no reason he can find, thinks he can reach if he puts his fingertips to it.

Drag like pulling an anchor out of sea, he lifts his stiff arm, touches, presses his hand against the high cheekbone. The placid surface of his face transforms under John’s fingers. Yields. Opens. Sherlock’s much closer. 

Says his name, this time a tone in it John can't identify but that tugs, hard, at something in him. Can only nod minutely, illogically, as there's no question been asked. Can only breathe as the pale hand reaches, touches briefly onto wool over old wound before sliding down to press palm against rib. 

Gaze unblinking, eyes holding his in a way that’s making his whole body burn with pleasure. When the curved lips drift faintly apart, he wants to crush, to dive, to _consume_ ; instead he presses his mouth only lightly against them, inhaling the moisture of humid breath. 

Thinks, not a little deliriously, that _this is going to be their first kiss_. Sure, most people follow a dinner, movie, kiss, _then_ crime scene re-enactment sex chronology, but what’s so splendid about _conventional_? Conventional is _boring_. 

Heart punching sternum, he moves the tip of his tongue just under the edge of the impossibly bowed top lip. 

Would never have guessed that his tongue is a key, and the wet pink underside of Sherlock’s lip a lock. A piteous groan, a blur, and then it’s itchy, and stifling, and more than a little uncomfortable, and so wonderful he grins like a bit of a berk as Sherlock clambers onto him, grabbing at him as if his hands are starving. John, as ever, is only too happy to encourage him to eat.

His fingers are so– oh. Smooth and slim and so utterly _restless_ , roaming like wild things, one of them awkwardly jamming in his sleeve where Sherlock’s trying to slide along the soft underside of his arm from wrist all the way to bicep in space that clearly will not accommodate it. 

Breaking the kiss with a messy lick back to catch a bead of saliva that’s shining on Sherlock's bottom lip, he pushes at the hectic bundle of limbs for room, manages to get the offending jumper off, hips pushing up inadvertently against the glorious weight in his lap. 

Sherlock’s hands are greedy on his arms, his chest, and then he presses his body– oh fuck all, _down_ , trousers smearing John’s wetness between them and– "Ngh. _Again_." and he does, just enough pain in the friction of fabric against sensitive skin to ratchet it all up to past bearing. He doesn't have to ask for the third – _oh_ – and it's easy, after that, to lose count. 

Wet gasping sentence in the vicinity of his ear. "I want to–" Breathlessness consuming whatever the next clause is, but the answer's yes, the answer's always going to be yes, so yes, Sherlock, whatever you want to do, he thinks giddily.

And he's glad, so terribly _glad_ , that Sherlock wants to, because the reaching and the pushing and the jostling of four thighs to make room for a scenario Tuffet and Wright clearly didn't have in mind when they designed the chair and even the sharp little scrape of cold wristwatch against his perineum is _glorious_. _Not_ glorious is the halting– 

_What the hell is he _– Right. Of course. The long arms, he wants to give them awards and write speeches in their honor, because they can reach the lubricant from where they are which means he doesn't have to wait, and he's been waiting so long ( _more than just these tense minutes and maybe even more than just these recent fortnights, too, yeah?_ )__

But now he isn't waiting anymore because Sherlock is searching and sliding and it's– _fuck_. 

Indescribably better without the glove. And he isn't blushing, no, not to the roots of his hair as he eagerly helps get his leg up– even higher now, Sherlock's arm hooked solidly under the back of John's knee, holding the weight of it. It’s shameless, spreading himself like this but he doesn't care, only cares that Sherlock get as much access as possible.

Because this stopped being wanting or even needing about five ticks ago. He _has_ to have it and he’s going to die if he doesn’t get it right 

_Now_. 

Throb of hot relief that pulses a moan out of his throat and more slick out of his cock. His hand tightens precipitously on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

It's odd, what he's doing; just sliding slim index finger up and down the cleft of his arse, curiously. Maddeningly. It's the growl, maybe, that gets his attention, and he stops wandering, finds his target. _Focuses_. 

Stroking so slowly John can actually _feel_ the small places where the hard kiss of catgut has thickened the skin on the pads of his fingers. Forgets for a moment that he's allowed to gasp and twist and spit words, his body momentarily going rigid with the effort to stay still and silent before snapping back into fevered kinetics. 

He's– christ, what the hell is it? Rubbing? Caressing? Not touching, no. _Touching_. And it's making him feel like he's drowning. Bright. Loud. Nerves screaming _Oh_ , mind screaming _Yes just like that, Sher_ – 

He's sure it's an accident. Doesn't see it happen of course, but it feels like an unintended veer, just a consequence of the slippery terrain, and Sherlock's small, hiccupped yelp supports this conclusion. 

So. It's fairly clear that Sherlock did not, in fact, _intend_ to abruptly slip quite a bit of his finger into John. John, for his part, didn't intend to blurt half of the expletives he knows all at one go. 

There's quivering, but he's not certain whose it is. 

It should feel a bit strange – and it does – but. But. What it mostly feels like is _please_ and _more_ and _want_ , and he shifts minutely, hoping Sherlock can read his body like Braille. 

And then he moves his fingertip. It's a small thing, really, just a tentative turning, an incremental sliding. Watching John's face intently, a tremble in the thin forearm; John can feel it inside his body. 

He’s asking, and John _aches_ for him to, and isn't that a tosh of weird, this desire to be– _penetrated_? Something new, something he doesn't give a lukewarm damn about analysing right now or ever, really, because all he wants is for Sherlock to _do it_. 

Hand leaden with desire, he raises it to the swannish neck, pulls him in, hard press of bone on bone beneath slippery skin of foreheads. Doesn't have the words, he'll have to hope he can just show him. Opens his mouth against the swollen red lips, but doesn’t kiss, only moans. Rocks his hips toward him, as best he can in the crush. 

And it's his best deduction, ever, this. 

Not even the space of a breath, a heartbeat, and he's pushing, all the way in, stilling only when the folded fingers bump against John's skin. 

Simultaneous, their sounds. Impossible to say whose is more fissured with ecstasy. 

Only a moment’s hesitation and then he's moving but it's really exploring, it's _feeling_ , like Sherlock wants to _memorise the inside of him too_ and that thought's just a little too much to bear and he can't, not really, so he lets go, lets all of it go, grabs harder onto the body crowding him. His chest hurts where a cold coat button presses into bare skin like a brand and all he can do is claw at the wool-clad back like a drowning man, gasping out things he never imagined he'd ever find himself thinking, much less hear himself _say_. 

Sherlock's a quick study. _Observant_. The second finger glides right in alongside – and _fuck, but they're **long**_ – and he might call it a burning if he were thinking, but he's not, so he doesn't call it anything, just moves against it, with it, onto it. It hurts, but only a little, and the craving is so large, the need so much more painful than the pain that he grits out _Faster_ and Sherlock, bless him, _obliges_. Stroking rapidly, and suddenly just as brusque – _yes_ –, as arrogant – _oh_ – , and as exactly bloody right – _christ!_ – as he is any other time. 

When the third pushes in, John spares a moment to be grateful that the tea table's cleared, so that the sound when it hits the floor is only the soft _thunk_ of wood instead of the clatter of porcelain. 

The flares of wool down over his hips itch terribly, and a tiny bit of skin's caught pinched where Sherlock's trying to keep his hand working relentlessly beneath them, and it's hideously hot and uncomfortable and it's absolute paradise. He never, ever wants to be anywhere else but here, every _Yes_ a spit-flecked curse keeping perfect time with the thrusting in and out of his body. 

A glimpse as they shift for better leverage shows him Sherlock sheened and splotched, looking equal parts chuffed and awestruck, and isn't that a riveting combination? He wants to keep his eyes open, he does, but he can't manage, not quite, and as the tide of orgasm starts its swell, they fall closed and just that quickly Sherlock's dived and is licking at his neck in a fierce and strange and utterly brilliant way. 

The rising frenzy's got the long body pressing impossibly closer, which has the unintended effect of hitching John's leg even higher, sending the deft fingers deeper and it's nothing but noises pouring out of him now, crazed litany of primitive chords as Sherlock– fucks him, and oh bloody resurrected Nora, that is precisely what he's doing, _fucking him_ , wildly, madly, shoving, and he wants a word as his body starts disintegrating into splinters of pleasure, as the buried fingertips hitting skillfully against his– oh but of course he'd know enough anatomy to know about that, some part of his wrecked brain notes hysterically– send him careening over the cliff, wants a word as the tight coil suddenly springs and he's coming, thick saltslide down his untouched cock, and there's only one word, will only ever be one word, one name, and he gives it to the soft golden air, shredded at the edges and distorted by pleasure's agony. 

On its heels, a fascinated scientific _Oh_ as Sherlock feels the ring of muscle contract hard on his fingers. Again. Again. 

As the duet of ragged breathing begins to even out, he bites his lip through the sparking scatter of aftershocks, pushing himself down onto the slick fingers when they start to withdraw – _surprised you twice in one evening, Mr. consulting detective_ – in a primal urge for _more_ even though it's over and more can't be had right now. Doesn't regret the discomfort. 

Peels open his eyes, finds himself staring at damp, tousled crown; Sherlock focused downward. It feels like the south-running mess has mostly gotten on and into his hand, which is carefully cupping, so perhaps the chair will survive after all. 

Just tossing the handkerchief when he looks up suddenly at him, eyes a splash of glitter in the twilight before he glances quickly away. With quiet precision, he lowers the aching leg, slipping his arm away from the slick skin in the hollow behind John’s knee with a small sound. 

He sways back; a tiny movement. Angular face settles into a subtle closedness and he hesitates a moment, shifts to rise. 

And that's not happening, _no_. John says it with his hand, more forcefully than he means to, gripping into the thin forearm. Relaxes it, but does not release, at the wince. Looking at brows and sidecast gaze, he thinks loudly at the silent man in front of him. 

_You don't get to leave, Sherlock. Because_ I _still haven't gotten to_ touch you, _and I want to and you don't get to always be the only one doing the touching and never the one being– oh. Safer that way, yeah? Too bad, because if you think I'm letting you out of this chair before I've had my share, you're as bent as a nine bob note._

and he could say all these things, or he could just _do_ , and John Watson's reputation as a man of action is well deserved. 

Tugs at the arm, gets a slight forward movement that's all he needs. How many times has he wanted to– grab the lapels just like this? Curl his fingers into the wool and _hold_. Refuse to let go. Refuse to release him, make him _see_. 

Sherlock sees, now. And the unguardedness there is– unnerving. Eyes can be the most naked thing about us. Never really knew that until this moment. 

In his periphery, blurred glimpse of his blunt thumbnail edging at red buttonhole. Watches his thumb move dazedly, up, over. Feels it touch the place on the pale jaw where he'd boldly dropped a kiss last time. Curtain of dark lashes flicker as he strokes there; he wonders if Sherlock realises it's the same spot. 

_Touching Sherlock_. Wishes he spoke six languages so he could say it in all of them. More waiting for him under the coat and he moves to shuck him of the thing – _god, he must be sweltering_ – stops, surprised, when Sherlock stiffens. Okay. That's– not what he was expecting, but he can keep his coat on, that's fine. 

Nothing readable on his face, which is pink and sweaty but carefully still, so he leans, sets his lips against corner of mouth in something that's not really a kiss, but no less effecting. Soft huff of air against his cheek, and a liquid, all-at-once melt of the taut frame. He slides inside the cavern of wool unresisted. 

Palms flat and light against the silvery fabric of the shirt, long torso solid and warm beneath. An easy glide; the thing's smooth as glass, clearly _not_ the easycare polyester of his own wardrobe. He moves over curves and angles, planes and trembling cords. Dares a thumb on skin at the collar, rough drag across the prominent clavicle. Fortune does, apparently, favour the bold: For a brief moment, Sherlock drops down against his thigh and ruts, mouth open, eyes shut. 

Taking advantage, he skims along shoulder between shirt and coat, the lining brushing his knuckles, drags slowly down, fingertips mapping the contours of the hollows under his arms. A breathy burble that sounds _nothing_ like ticklish. Interesting. Very. Mouth there later. Wants that, yes. 

Nips his teeth not particularly gently against Sherlock’s lips, and the shiver he gets in return raises a twitch and sudden rush of blood that makes him groan, a tone tinted with a generous wince of _raw_ and _too soon_. So much for the ostensibly wanner refractory periods of the middle-aged. 

Synchrony that’s all instinct, his hands glide slowly down as his tongue glides slowly in, fingers curving over the trouser-clad hips. Lets his thumb rest firmly on point of jutting bone; presses and slides, just a little, toward the crease of his thigh. Stops, rests it there, just rubbing idly as he languidly tastes Sherlock's mouth. Greedily devours the moans rumbling towards him. 

Pulling away for air, he notes with satisfaction the shiny whiteness of the knuckles on the slim hand gripping into upholstery. He wants to go slowly, except that he very much _doesn't_ want to, and he _needs_ to get his hands on skin and everyone knows that needing trumps wanting. 

Trying to get at his flies is a piece of mischief; scarf insists on swinging in the way, coat flaps a no less persistent enemy, and he fumbles with urgency, groaning with relief when the button finally slips free. Quiet sound out of Sherlock when his fingers grasp the zip. 

The enticing little bloom of wet on silk causes him to swallow, hard, and he can't resist– A hiss when he strokes there, just once, just gently, so he retreats, drawing the pad of his thumb up over the fine black hairs rising toward navel. Dips there, stroking into the smooth thimble of collagen. Deduces – see, he _is_ clever – that Sherlock likes this. 

Takes the opportunity of the unabashed writhe to slip his hand farther under the drifting shirt hem, skating up the trembling lake of bare abdomen, flared breastbone so unpadded by adipose that he can feel the tiny ridge in the sternal angle. 

He can't catalogue in the same precise, ruthlessly exacting way that Sherlock can, but he can savour, run his hands over every inch of this body, linger over its details. Doesn’t have eidetic memory, but god knows it's nothing he'll _ever_ forget. 

Calloused palm _shushing_ over nipple almost topples his heavy-lidded gargoyle from his perch, and he presses his mouth for a moment against the sweaty temple, the wet curl plastered there salting his lip. Frames pectoral lightly with the span of his hand, feeling the muffled thud of speeding ventricles. Iambic throbsong of syllables in the warm red drum. 

_i’ve_ |  | _been_  
---|---|---  
_re_ |  | _li_  
_ab_ |  | _ly_  
_in_ |  | _formed_  
_i_ |  | _don’t_  
  
Moves his lips softly against Sherlock’s face. The heart he ostensibly doesn’t have skips a beat under his palm. 

Slips the fingers of his other hand under the band of the trousers, incidentally grazing knob of spine on the way; the shudder, unexpected and strong. When he does it again, rubbing with deliberation this time, Sherlock's hips press forward on their own, once; twice. Something garbled out of his throat and then a desperate _Jo– hn_. 

Smooth curve of arse, down, over, around, fitting his palm against it tightly. Sherlock’s breathing isn't right, isn't right at all, not something he'd call "erratic" so much as _jagged_ , and his face is– Fucking gorgeous, is what, furrow between the black brows over closed eyes, hectic vascular warpaint splashed everywhere, bead of sweat sliding down philtrum more pornographic than any skin mag he’s ever wanked to. He pauses, stroking hip softly, just to _look_. 

Rare thing, getting to _watch_ Sherlock, examine him without being examined right back at 10x ––and sod all if Sherlock doesn't correct him even inside his head–– _100_ x– your magnification lens, and he revels in it, his gaze lingering with the same relish that his hands are on the trembling body in his lap. 

Rubbing a small circle in the slick bowl of spine, he watches the knot between the closed eyes loosen, just a little. Watches them flutter but not open as he speaks. 

"You're staring." Quiet, simple statement. 

"Yes." Quiet, simple answer. 

There’s something in his head, something muddled, about what always being the person doing the observing, and never being the observed, offers. Something about safety and the kinds of safety that are dangerous. Something important, that he wants to say to Sherlock, but he can’t quite get his hands around it, and the word he starts on stumbles out more noise than morpheme. 

The sound opens the seaglass eyes, peering at him carefully, and then he's leaning in, falling slowly toward him and John's mouth opens all on its own, ready for a kiss, but Sherlock drifts sideways, tucking his face into the nook of neck, rubs there, nosetip nudging behind his ear, tumult of curls matting against his cheek. 

Reflexive rocking's got hold of him, and there's a sharp thread of shake gripping his spine as he clutches at John. Storm of sensation taking him away from the familiar rooms of the mind palace and it's evident that he doesn't know quite what to do with himself, only knows that he feels and wants and _needs_ ; _is_ need, really, just one long strand of it, coiled in John's lap. 

John who saves people, because that's what he does, and he can do it for Sherlock, here, now, and his hands are swift but not hasty, doctor's hands, soldier's hands, one steady on chaotic hip, the other sliding into– 

Oh it's. Glorious. Slender. And silken. And very hot, the skin no doubt as red as it feels if he could see down between them. So solid and real in his grasp that he doesn’t even want to start stroking, not yet, wants only to feel the weight of him resting there in his hand. Against his neck, strained silence and wet lips, rubbing. 

And as he holds, gently and with something that shouldn't be so close to amazement but is, extending a fingertip slowly downward to trace the contour of bollocks, it's there, abruptly, running wetly over his knuckles in a brief hang fire of silence before a broken sort of bark hits the air. 

Feels one more flickering convulsion against his palm before the hot flesh goes lax, the rest of the long body rigid and tight. And, worryingly, remaining so even after he's let go and is soothingly petting at thigh. 

Nowhere for the other hand to divest itself of sticky mess but the arm of his favorite chair or Sherlock's posh trousers. In a noble sacrifice for which there probably is _not_ an RAMC medal, he opts for the former, wondering fuzzily if Tesco carries _very_ specific upholstery cleaners. 

He's reaching for the thoroughly rumpled scarf – _god, get that off the poor man, at least_ – when he feels the chestnut head turn curtly away, the body below it brace subtly a second before the words emerge, a declarative that sounds more dare than confession. 

"I'm very–" anxious swallow that makes John's chest ache in the slanting light "–sensitive." 

The clipped tone does nothing to hide the fraction of embarrassment, of fear, and the brittle overlay of anger that means to make it a gauntlet thrown down only makes him seem that much more vulnerable. 

He has to say something, he does, but he's still just a bit too agog and a bit too ecstatic and a bit too _Oh touching Sherlock Oh Sherlock's coming in my hand and it's all so_ fantastic _and I am apparently most definitely not a hetrosexshull which is fine, really, it’s all fine, and we're going to do this so often that we'll have to go to hospital for exhaustion and possibly chafing_ – 

Feels more than sees the fall – of face, of lean chest – and it's too late to brake the velocity. 

"I've disappointed you." 

Nothing like the only other time he's heard that sentence, cool with placid detachment. Here, now, more spat than spoken, hot with bitterness. 

It's fury that rises first – _How can you **be** so daft for a genius?!_ , and _I will find and punch properly in the face any tosswank who's ever made you feel inadequate_ – but he breathes the emotional boil away, smoothing the wrinkle of it out of his voice, warm with familiar fondness. 

"Terrible deduction. Your worst ever. Before you know it, Anderson'll be besting you." 

The impassioned snort that brings his Sherlock back to him is the loveliest thing he's ever heard. 

Loose-limbed with relief, he circles his arms round the suddenly pliant body, smiles dazzlingly when he feels Sherlock's head turn back towards his neck, breath warm and close. 

He’s stroking hazily along coat-shrouded back when the mumbled query vibrates against the damp skin of his shoulder. 

"John?" 

"Mm? 

" 's hot." 

"Brilliant observation. Thus dies Anderson's chance at supremacy." 

The _hrmph_ is sonorous with derision, the sentence that follows tinted with the utterly childish petulance he has to work hard not to find endearing sometimes. 

"Just help me out of it," he whinges, shrugging at the heavy wool. 

  


Unnecessary request, that. John's already removing layers. 

  


~


End file.
